Mother Moon

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On the first day, God screwed the lightbulb in 

and flicked the switch. Afterwards, he made you,

then kicked his feet up on the couch 

to let you finish it all off. 

On the second day, you made everything  

grey turn green. For a while, God had assumed himself 

colour-blind, and watched with envy as the world 

sprouted beneath you; the light  

given something to look at. 

The third and fourth were much the same,  

you named the ocean and the great plains 

and became the reason for stars, 

and they then learnt what it means to be worded.

You made people, on the fifth day. 

You made them laugh and cry and ache

and do what living people do, 

which is to be selfish sometimes:

to like sex and chocolate and rollercoasters and beer, 

and you were so good at this.  

And you loved them so much. 

So, on the sixth day you gave birth to your love

and she loved you back. And you tried again, 

and he died. And you tried a third time,

and she was born too, fashioned from your quiet grief

in a shape that made it bearable. 

And on the seventh day, you barely  

took a break. Though your work was done, 

though we were being cruel and remarkable 

in the language you invented for us,

you still knocked at God’s shins

with the vacuum cleaner 

as you swept up the left-over dust.